Daddy's Little Girl
by Litt
Summary: She never knew her mother, and when her father starts hiding things, she begins to wonder about him, too.


Untitled By: Litt  
  
Summary: (???) never knew her mother; her name, who she was, what she looked like, or even how she met her dad. Then again, when her father begins hiding things from her she begins to think she doesn't know him either, other than he has blond hair, he moved to America with her when she was a baby, and he went to school in Europe with her mother. When a letter comes that could answer all these questions all hell breaks loose. Almost literally...almost.  
  
Dis:  
  
AN: Well, Malfoy has a kid, eh?  
  
FS: Got this idea, first I need a name. I wrote it when I got bored, but now I'm actually thinking of expanding upon that teeny little 3 page story with no concept. Now I want it to be like: Draco, for some reason, left when his daughter was born and fled to America with her, intent on leaving his world behind. However, as she comes into her own, old things come back to haunt him; and he's forced to cross over that bridge with her. I don't know who the mom is, one reason I made her look like her dad other than the curly hair and tan. Because, lets face it, the obvious choices are Hermione, Ginny (and 'My). I don't know myself; I just know I have this creepy scene planned out. One of them comes and is insane and stuff;  
  
"I'm sure her mommy misses her." She said quietly.---- Draco, in an equally quiet voice that he barely recognized as his own, heard himself say, "Yes, I'm sure you do."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
A scream rippled throughout the room, reverberating in slow waves, penetrating the now thick silence. It was a guttural sort of cry on the more literal scheme of things, but it was enough to send one's nerves on edge; it was harshly abrupt in its crescendo and when it stopped one could not be sure if that was a good thing.  
  
There was a man who was acutely aware of this sound coming from a few feet away, knowing only there was no help he could offer, and presently he held his own breath. His neck hurt from the hours spent in the same slumped position and the suddenness of his whiplash-like reaction to the cry; he could almost feel the adrenaline return, and he had been so weak before. He wanted to jump up and run, he wanted to scream, to shout and to cry. His shoulders tensed, ears straining for another sound, another cry, but there was none and he found his restraint could barely hold him anymore. A swirl of color and shadows had been rushing past his spot on the dungeon wall, proof of the fast paced world he was suspended from, but they were gone now. Whispers and orders had been called out, nurses and candies and faceless people.  
  
Where had they all left too?  
  
A stifling cloak of hot air seemed to make its way to his nose and his mouth went dry. He could not stand up, he knew, even with the new burst of energy; he could not call out because he had nothing to say. It was torture being there. He had once thought it was tolerable, but now...  
  
The hall had gotten quiet again, like it had been nearly hours before when he'd first found himself in this spot on the wall, collapsing on the ground thinking it comfortable, content to wait, wanting for something he could not name. He'd been confused and in disbelief then, and after all that time for contemplation, he was in a panic at not having resolved anything yet. There had been no company but his own thoughts then and they had been few and far between, some not at all comforting in their trilling routes towards irrationality. It was dark again.  
  
He stared intently at the wall, willing it to move aside so he could see.  
  
It did not move.  
  
He did the same to the arch way, willing someone to walk through, anyone, to tell him what was going on. Someone to make him get up and push him through that door.  
  
No one came.  
  
It had only been a minute now and not a sound; even the resonance he had so clung to was gone. The silence was deafening.  
  
I should be there, he thought, his inner voice halting and unsure. I should—I and he struggled to get up.  
  
But he had not anticipated being shocked out of his shoes by a passing Faceless. He had not known he had that much breath left over to gasp with, having rationed it for the long journey across the distance. It had been a haze, a suspended reality he'd been in those last few minutes, and it was broken now in a clear, painfully precise way that made him unfocused.  
  
The hall was now very busy and he found the movement and sound distracting and strangely inappropriate.  
  
"It's a girl, Sir." The man said. He did not seem too overtly enthused about this but, judging from his naturally gruff voice, that was not an offense. He held his breath for the rest of the mans sentence; he looked like the kind of man who finished them.  
  
There was no denying the feeling he felt then had been a mix of pride and love and unabashed giddiness. He felt he should jump up now and "woo-hoo!" so he did. The mans stare was enough to compose him, otherwise he would have ran into the room and grabbed the baby and announced it to the world himself. A girl!  
  
His girl.  
  
Something stopped him from doing this, and he often wonders about it. If he were to go back, in a pensive mood, and analyze what he was feeling that moment, he would have isolated the one that played a crucial role in much of this. There was fear, yes, but not much for the child.  
  
Their girl.  
  
The man squared his shoulders and continued, looking him in the eye solemnly. "A beautiful baby girl, she was. Had your eyes,--"  
  
Was? He thought.  
  
Something cold was making its way towards the pit of his stomach. Something out of nowhere, something that took too long and burned on its way down. Something wrong.  
  
The man continued with the mannerisms of a man who was not used to hedging something like this, as any man would, given the opportunity to see to it another of his gender be properly informed. The one listening, however, was just digesting this last bit: a baby with his eyes, gray, whose first and last sight had not been his own, before the final blow hit and he tuned him out, turned and ran to clarify it himself.  
  
"Beautiful, the pair of them; we did everything we could, but the babe slipped away. Took the lass with her..."  
  
A scream rippled throughout the room, reverberating in slow waves, penetrating the now thick silence. It was a guttural sort of cry, on the literal scheme of things, but it was enough to send one's nerves on edge; it was harshly abrupt in its crescendo and when it stopped one could not be sure if that was a good thing.  
  
~  
  
Ten years later,  
  
It had never been one of his strong points, getting up in the morning. Back at school he'd always been able to muster enough strength to get someone else to turn the alarm off for him, but now, as a rule, he let it ring until it fell off the bedside table.  
  
It fell, shrieking, to the floor and continued to rattle on the carpet and he continued to lie in bed. Carpet had been one of the later installments to his house, having realized that the hardwood only magnified the annoying rattling immensely.  
  
Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and he could hear little slipper- incased feet heading his way. He closed his eyes, sure his performance at sleeping, something he hadn't been doing a lot of lately, would seem complimented by his tangled appearance in the sheets since the comforter always wound up at the foot. He threw his arm up automatically, to both shield his eyes from the sun that poured in once the visitor opened the curtains and to hide his smile.  
  
"Daddy," a girl's voice said, coming closer. "Today's my first day of school, please get up."  
  
He opened his eyes to see the white-blonde crown of his daughters head as she bent down to retrieve the offending clock; with a practiced move, she succeeded where he did not. It fell silent.  
  
"I wouldn't have thought you'd be so anxious to go to school," he said, sitting up.  
  
She hopped up next to him, small on his tall bed, feet barely reaching the end of the bottom mattress. Not for the first time, he noticed how she seemed the only light on his dark green comforter, all silver and gray and stuffed purple dragon; he assumed she got it from him, the hair and eyes. But there was something else. Unlike her father, she had much more color to her, and her hair was naturally curly, not overtly, but enough; if you looked at it when the light hit it just right, there were hints of a different color, as with her eyes. In the beginning, when it had been growing in, he had tried his best to ignore this, but now it was just a thing to know, to set something apart. It lay around her shoulders now, in its new haircut style, doing nothing but framing her round, smiling face.  
  
"I am!" she assured him. "I've been up a long time making sure all my crayons are in my bag," and she went on telling him how she realized the red one was missing and how Rala, their cat, had eaten it. She frowned, "I liked that color, too."  
  
He laughed. "Nice to know you care about old Rala. Don't worry, give it time and it'll come back." The fluffy black cat only purred smugly from his spot on the leather lazyboy. "I'm sure there's another crayon we can get you, or you can ask someone else."  
  
"But I don't want someone else's, I want my own." She said once they were in the kitchen. "And before you say it, I know how to share. It just doesn't seem fair I should have to use someone else's favorite color because of some cat,"  
  
"Hey," he warned. "Rala has been in this family for a long time. Don't write him off like that,"  
  
Now on the stool, the little girl watched her father look busy at the counter, knowing he couldn't cook. "How long?" she questioned as the said cat jumped on her lap. She, despite previous arguments, petted him anyway.  
  
With his head in the island cupboard, his voice was muffled. "Since you were born."  
  
"So, I have a cat for a brother. Cool!"  
  
He stood up with various cooking and not so cooking goods in his hands and dumped them on the table. "What do you want for breakfast?"  
  
"Food," she said, grinning.  
  
"Well, I knew that, or I'd be worried. But what do you want me to cook?"  
  
"P'sgetthi!"  
  
He sighed, "Pancakes it is."  
  
An hour later, he was driving her up to the end of the subdivision, where a few elementary children were already huddled, their parents parked nearby or an older kid in PJ's keeping watch. They huddled in little groups, scarves flapping listlessly over their shoulders, their combined breath floating up like a chimney. One of the older ones, a high-schooler from the looks of it, nudged the little kid into one of these huddles and she was absorbed instantly, leaving the teen to scowl on their own from a safe distance.  
  
He parked but kept the heat on. "Want to wait in the car with me, or go with 'Chelle?" he asked.  
  
The girl eyed the group from behind tinted windows; "It's cold. I can tell, their noses are all red and Miki has his big, fluffy jacket."  
  
"A little cold never stopped you before." He pointed out; not sure which decision he was prodding her to, not being sure which was right himself. "You can stay, if you like, I just thought you might want to catch up with your friends is all. Nice to know my daughter loves me so," he grinned. She pulled down the mirror and readjusted her burgundy beret and fiddled with one of her self-taught braids, clad with crimson bows; in his own personal opinion, he wanted them to change the dress code at the private school, there was too much red.  
  
She seemed satisfied after a minute of silent contemplation and turned to him, "I'll see you around four," and gave him a peck on the cheek.  
  
"So I'm guessing you're just going to leave me in the car then," he said. "Figures."  
  
She could not help but roll her eyes at him, couldn't help but smile. "Dad," she drew it out with an exasperated air. The kids outside had found something interesting on the ground, the teen and her companion, another teen, half dressed, conveniently ignored the excitement. Buttoning up her coat and hitching her back pack on, his little girl opened the door and hopped out, turning back only to say I love you.  
  
He watched with a detached feeling of anxiety and born again loneliness. Turning the heat off, he realized for the first time he hadn't felt it at all. Still in his robe and silk night clothes, the only formal thing about him seemed his leather gloves. He laughed, years ago he would never have pictured himself like this: waiting in a muggle car, watching like a mother hawk his little girl chat with school mates, still in his robe, hair a scruffy mess.  
  
Flexing his fingers, he felt the pain of an old hurt; it lanced through his arm like a bolt and his only conclusion to this was there would be a storm coming.  
  
A roar came and he looked up. The yellow bus was chugging its way towards the stop sign and kids came rushing to the sidewalk. She waved and melted into the throng; he could still see her though, a white dot amongst all other colors. The teens watched from their spot up the hill as the bus turned around and the parents left for work or home one by one.  
  
One of the teens, Michele's older sister, came over with her friend. "Hey, Mr. D! Mighty brave of you to come up here. Mom was too sad, said she couldn't watch Michelle go off for another year. Never mind she's in frickin' fifth grade now. Forget she'll back this afternoon," The girl chatted, the boy behind her smiled. "This is Jax, an old friend of mine." She introduced.  
  
"Jax, this is Mr. D; the coolest grown-up on the block, might I add."  
  
"I'm honored; given the fact most of these people are stiffs, I'm flattered I stand out in a crowd." He said, while shaking Jax's cold hand. The boy wore only pants and a t-shirt, though he didn't look at all cold. Obviously, he had given his jacket to the girl who looked snug and awake in what seemed sweats. He could not help but think they felt the same way he did in the morning, only getting ready once at home.  
  
"Nice accent; where're you from?" Jax asked. His voice was just breaking, he could tell, by the careful way he spoke and the tremor that was faintly there; Cody, the girl, didn't seem to have noticed.  
  
"England, obviously, but I was born in France. Grew up all over Europe, mostly around Scotland, though."  
  
"He came here with when she was barely a year." Cody explained.  
  
Jax gave him a strange look. "I thought you were just dropping your sister off. You don't old enough to be a dad,"  
  
Cody grinned. "Couldn't you tell was his? Same hair, same eyes, -- the girl can speak French for Gods sake! Anyway, you look good for your age, Mr. D, I think he was trying to say."  
  
"Please, you make me feel old with all that Mister stuff. Call me Draco. –Thank you young man for the compliment, your friend makes me feel like I'm around 40."  
  
She raised an eyebrow. "You're not?"  
  
Draco shook his head. "33."  
  
"Impressed."  
  
Cody looked at the car's clock. "Time to go get ready, big, useless day of orientations ahead of me. See you later," she called as they walked off.  
  
He sat there in his car for a few more minutes, watching the heavy clouds drift overhead, remembering. It was not often one got an opportunity to be still and calm and just breath, and now that it was here, he wasn't going to waste it. Shouts and laughs could be heard from over the hill and, with a glance at the mirror, it was the high school kids, making their way to the bus stop. Cody was with them, but he could not spot Jax.  
  
Sighing, he pulled out and headed towards the grocery store to buy some spaghetti.  
  
Once home, he plopped back in bed and slept, box of noodles clutched in his hand.  
  
Getting up had never been one of his strong points. 


End file.
